


yuzu

by strato



Series: remissions [1]
Category: Carmen Sandiego (Cartoon 2019)
Genre: F/M, Post-injury, Spoilers, did you see the LOOKS there were giving each other....., hurt/comfort but not really???, im not going to drop these guys, they compliment each other so well hrgsgagsh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26788123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strato/pseuds/strato
Summary: at least acid is warm
Relationships: Agent Zari/Chase Devineaux
Series: remissions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981868
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	yuzu

**Author's Note:**

> some spoilers for season 3 ahead!!!
> 
> wanted to scribble sumn _very quick_ and short bc that venice episode took me out at the kneecaps,

Zari’s memory was hit or miss since the injury.

That slow afternoon, she vastly surprised herself at the weakness of her hand, grasping the knob of her apartment’s door and holding it as tight as she could, but the movement felt empty. Her hand shook and the grasp was not near as strong as it used to be, and before Zari opened the door she bit down on her lip hard. Tears welled in her eyes from the sharp pain she induced on herself, but it felt good, it felt so masochistically good, to have another pain that was not debilitating her.

She opened the door slowly, not even bothering to lift her head. Her eyes stuck themselves on his navy pants, changed out of his regulation suit. Zari couldn’t move her head up much, her neck, head, everything throbbed, and she leaned against the doorframe with eyes half-lidded. Once piercing green, they looked worn away like they had been bleached, her very color faded as an old photograph. Her skin felt warm, but she was freezing beyond belief.

“Agent Devineaux.” Zari tried to say in a voice that sounds fine, but it’s oh so obviously feeble. Even though she doesn’t look at his face, she can almost feel the mood change from one of anticipated concern to deep, deep worry. She’s exhausted, and she’s only taken a few steps to the door.

“Zari.” Chase said hoarsely and shifts whatever he was holding to his other arm (out of the corner of her eye Zari thinks it’s a little plant and a card) and tries to guide her inside. Like the night in Venice, she lets his steady hand settle on her shoulder and guide her back inside. Zari nudges his hand away when she thinks she’s able to walk herself, feeling like the biggest jerk in the world but unable to restrain herself from doing so. 

Zari comes to regret it later, much more than she ever thought she was capable of. The drought of affection she’s experienced starts to show.

She sat on the couch, and Chase mimics her action on the wooden chair across from her, Zari cradling a mug of citrusy yuzu tea turned cold she couldn’t bear to sip anymore. Chase places his items on the coffee table in the center; it is a tiny tree. The card strung around the center is too far away to see, so Zari doesn’t know what kind. Despite the little movement, her head is pounding again, and she closes her eyes and tries to focus on their muddled conversation instead. She’s hit her limit of the good old ‘minophen for the day, so there’s nothing she can do except suck it up and ride it through, weak girl.

Then they converse, to the best of their ability: Zari tries to get the hang of speech again, not that she lost it or anything, but it’s been days since she’s uttered a single word and the letters feel like they don’t belong in her mouth. Chase’s words fly off, one by one, from her memory akin to delicate autumn leaves. She can’t recall it—every syllable exchanged sounded muffled when she tried to replay it. She can vaguely remember the genuinely saccharine words of sorrow, of apology, well-wishing. Zari can feel the tight and sure warmth of his arms around her lithe frame, offering the same warmth he exhibited when cradling her like a porcelain ballerina in his arms. 

She tries to hold onto that for as long as she can, but it’s slipping between her fingers. It’s really the only thing that helps Zari relax, distance herself from the throbbing pain in the back of her head, recurring metallic taste under her tongue. Only the bubbly words from the doctor barring any strenuous activity (”Post-concussion care!” she’d squeaked like a host at a nostalgic kid’s birthday party despite Zari’s deathly crumpled form on the hospital bed) prevent her from sobbing and feeling sickly _pity_ for herself. 

He was there, too. Chase was always by her side, looking out for her with an anxiety-riddled side eye, and Zari would be straight up blind if she didn’t notice how neurotic and out of it he was after they caught the masks. The façade could be brought down. After being admitted into the hospital, Zari woke up to around 28 text messages from Chase that lasted until the grim hours of midnight, presumably after Chief told him to stop.

The last time she ate isn’t exact in her mind, but it’s been a while from the way her acetaminophen-packed stomach growls. Zari pays no mind, grabbing her bedsheets under her, squinting her eyes and tasting blood again. The fading scent of citronella diffusing around her room absolutely _enraged_ her, it burned her nostrils, corroded her skin, everything. Thinking about the lemon bars served at the cafeteria now were enough to have her dry-retch.

Zari pulled the blankets tighter around herself, doomed to be cold forever, and wishing he was right there, it didn’t matter, in the room or by her side—but his warmth was so sure, a hearth, easing the ice that no amount of sunlight could melt and drip. 

She’s tempted to call him for a minute, a stray thought that she lets wander inside her indefinitely fucked up head before escorting it out the door. In fact, she doesn’t know why she’s thinking of Chase this way, she wants to blame it on the concussion, or at least the rigidly rational side of her does. Zari grits her teeth. It’s not going to happen: this manifesting fever dream that she was going to catch feeling for someone, much less her work partner—was just nightmarishly sprouting from the ground. 

Unlike everything else, Zari can’t drown it out. 

The blurred form of the petite lemon tree’s leaves (the one that Chase brought, and since that afternoon, tended to it more than herself) on her nightstand swarm her vision, an acid trip, lukewarm lemonade poured in her eyes. No matter how stinging the leaves smell, she lets them suffocate her.


End file.
